Cleo Odzer - Goa Freaks - My Hippie Years in India

"I'm state."

"Oh."

I’d heard stories about women criminals, and I now wondered if me might have a rough time locked up with these serious convict-types.

But as I started to realize that they had decided I was loony-tunes, I felt safer. Somehow going spaced-out was a good defence. It inspired toleration.

Meal over, I explored the room, looking prepared to fight off an enemy attack. Now they might give me trouble, I thought. As I walked by they whistled and made comments. One took hold of my arm.

"Hey, sugar. You gonna be my ole Lady or what?" she asked. The others laughed.

I remembered advice someone had given me about what to do when caught in an undertow—don't fight it; swim with it; let it carry you its short distance and then you will be free.

"Sure," I answered her, lifting my hand to my hair so she could read my bracelet and be impressed by my "federal" status, whatever that was. She was young, petite, and nice looking. Here was a new adventure—a prison story, this one. I also had the Feeling she didn't really view me as a sex object.

She and I did spend a lot of time together after that. If she didn't come to me, I sought her out. I figured it wasn't a bad idea to let myself be adopted by his woman and her tough-looking friends. We'd sit together in front of the TV. Sometimes she had her arm around me, but at due time did make sexual advances. She never tried to kiss me. It was more a game we played to entertain the others. I liked her, and her black friends turned out to be the most fun group in that place. One time I even turned her on to a little of my stash.

I'd been arrested on a Friday, and that same day I called a friend and told him to contact John. On Monday I was informed I had a visitor. They brought me to a linen closet.

Inside the tiny space, surrounded by folded towels and boxes of Mr. Clean, was a young guy who was apparently still trying to convince the guards that he was alright. "It's okay. I'm her lawyer," he said. "Just give us a few minutes. Really, it's okay." Unbelievably, they left me in the closet with this character, who sat perched on a stack of towels. "Hi, I'm Henry," he said when we were alone. "Actually, I'm not your lawyer. I'm a tax lawyer and friend of John's. We have many people in common. You know my wife from Goa—Madeline. Happy Madeline?"

"Yes! She gave out wonderful acid at a beach party. She's your wife?" I piled a handful of towels on the floor next to him. When I sat, they wobbled, and as I flung an arm out for balance, I knocked over a stack of slices. We laughed. "Where's John?"

"He's in town. He doesn't want to come to this place. You have a lawyer, He should he here soon. I just wanted to check if you needed anything."

"I have a stash, thanks. When can I get out?"

"As soon as they lower the bin it’s at fifty thousand now."

I moaned. "I don't understand how this happened. Do you? What went wrong?"

"I heard that an official became suspicious when you initially appeared for the passport, so he investigated the name. You were crying or something."

"My eye! I had a tissue over my eye. I wasn't crying. Shit!"

"Well, he thought you were crying, and it made him suspicious."

Henry didn't stay long, but it was long enough for us to turn the linen closet into a shambles. Every time we made a gesture, something fell off a shelf. By the time he left we were up to our ankles in towels and laughing aloud.

Later that day the real lawyer came, and we met in a more official looking, lawyer-client room. This guy was no fun at all.

"I don't think you realize how serious this is," he said, not smiling. "The amount of cash you had, in your possession . . . They're curious as to how you acquired it."

"How much do they have? They won't keep it, will they?"

"Over five thousand." He looked at a paper in his folder. "Five thousand, three hundred, and fifty-seven dollars. Isn't that how much you had on you?"

"Oh, good. I got worried for a moment."

"There's more?"

"Yeah, at the hotel. I left about fifteen thousand in a safety deposit box. I'm glad they didn't find that."

"IN CASH?" When I nodded he sighed. "Well, we'll see what we can do."

"Please, get me out of here soon."

Finally, not that week, but the week after, my boring lawyer succeeded in reducing the bail to ten thousand, of which I had to pay only ten percent.

The courtroom scene was a riot. I was my more-spacey self. I had to be. The judge asked questions I couldn't answer rationally if I didn't want to spend the next twenty years in jail. Why had I appealed for a passport under an assumed name? Oh, I just thought it'd be fun a while. Why had I registered at the hotel in yet another name? Same reason, just to be someone different. How many names did I use? Oh, oodles.

The courtroom was packed with people. They had a wonderful time. Their laughter grew louder at each question I answered. There I stood with straggly blond hair, one high-heeled shoe painted red and white, the other painted blue, two-foot-long fringes swinging to my movements, eyes wide and trying to look innocent.

"What were you doing with five thousand dollars in cash?" the judge asked.

I made a face and groaned. "Argh! American Express. Phooey! I lost my traveller’s checks once and never got the money back. What a hassle they put me through. I HATE American Express!"

I stamped my foot. The court guffawed.

"UGH!" I continued. "All those forms! How was I supposed to remember the numbers on the checks? I had the numbers! But I didn't know which checks I'd already spent! How was I supposed to know that? I'd sent the receipts to Momsy for safe keeping! They'd SAID to keep the receipts in a safe place! They'd SAID to keep them separate from the checks! How could I keep track of the numbers if they were on the other side of the planet? I'll NEVER use American Express again!"

I pounded my fist on the rail. The court roared.

"And American Express doesn't hold mail very long, either. They send it back. Or throw it out. Now Thomas Cook is good."

Time to pay the bail; Henry came forward with the money. Cash. All in tens and twenties. He started counting and then forgot how much he'd counted and had to start over. Though the attention of the court had by now turned elsewhere, it soon focused the commotion created by Henry's counting and recounting and the exasperated look of the court official. Eventually the official tried to help him court, but he too lost track amid the ruckus of the spectators and had to start again.

The bail paid, I had to return to the detention hall to be officially checked out. This meant another trip in the unmarked car, handcuffed and chained. Again I cloaked the metal with fringe. I don't know how I'd have coped without that fringe.

When I finally left I found John out front hiding behind a pillar. "APPLECROC!" We hugged—alter John inched me behind his pillar. The front stoop of detention hall was not the coolest place to conduct a romance.

"Oh, Applecroc, I missed you!"

I dug my face in his neck and thought, "Don't look at such a failure." John never got himself arrested. He was too smart.

I had no excuse for the dim-witted way I landed in jail, especially after the warning. Plain stupidity. And since I was convinced that my old self would never have missed such a warning, it meant only one thing-I was losing it. My alertness, caution, logical thinking—my faithful old brain was going. Maybe it was time I found a new occupation.

Meanwhile, my ordeal was far from over. I faced a hearing in six weeks' time. John and I found a studio at Trinity Apartments, a luxury complex that rented by the month. It had a pool, a gym, a sauna, plush red carpeting down its corridors—hey, this was great.

San Francisco abounded with Goa Freaks, most of them living outside the city in Marin County. The first time the phone rang in our new apartment—the day we moved in—I heard a familiar French accent. "Hello, Cleo? It's Cecile. Can we come over?"